He Sees You When You’re Sleeping: A Dark and Steamy Holiday Romance of Obsession and Secrets – Where Desire Meets Danger in the Heart of NYC

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I can taste it on my lips.

Before I “met” Chloe, I would have never known this little disturbing fact. It’s a bitter tang, like copper pennies and unripe persimmons. Sometimes I catch myself running my tongue over my teeth, chasing that elusive taste as I stand outside her window.

Chloe barely knows I exist, of course. Our brief meetings don’t count because she’s only met my outer shell. Nice Jack. Gentleman Jack. Fireman Jack who is always there to help. She hasn’t met the real Jack. The Jack who is creeping outside her window.

But I know everything about her. The way she takes her coffee at home (one sugar, splash of soy milk, a sprinkle of cinnamon). Her favorite song (“Psycho Killer” by Talking Heads). She dances around her room with her eyes closed with the song blasting as a way to hype herself up before she goes online. I know the exact shade of her eyes (amber flecked with gold). I know that she likes to wear fluffy socks but can never sleep with them on. Each day that passes, I’m learning more and more. It’s endless but I’m determined to discover everything I possibly can.

I watch her from afar, collecting these precious details like a fucked up psycho hoarding shiny trinkets. Each new discovery about Chloe feeds my obsession, intensifying that metallic flavor in my mouth.

Tonight it’s snowing around me as I lurk outside her bedroom window. Delicate flakes settle on my eyelashes as I peer through the frosted glass. Chloe is curled up on her bed, bathed in the soft glow of her bedside lamp. She’s reading, her brow furrowed in concentration. I imagine I can hear the whisper of pages turning.

My breath fogs the window, and I wipe it away impatiently. Can’t let anything obstruct my view. My fingers leave smudges on the glass, and I realize with a start that I’ve forgotten my gloves. Sloppy. I can’t afford to be sloppy.

Chloe shifts, stretching languidly like a cat. Her oversized T-shirt rides up, exposing a strip of pale skin above her pajama bottoms. My mouth goes dry, that familiar taste intensifying. I swallow hard.

I press closer to the window, my fingertips leaving ghostly imprints on the glass. The cold bites into my skin, but I barely notice. All of my attention is focused on Chloe as she sets her book aside and reaches for her phone.

A faint blue glow illuminates her face as she scrolls, her lips curving into a small smile. Who is she texting? A friend? A lover?

I can’t see.

I hate not being able to see.

Jealousy flares hot in my chest, and I have to force myself to take deep, calming breaths. The vapor from my exhales creates a misty veil between me and my obsession.

Suddenly, Chloe looks up, her gaze seeming to pierce right through the window. For a heart-stopping moment, I’m certain she’s seen me. I freeze, not daring to move a muscle. But her eyes slide past, unseeing, as she gets up and pads over to her computer.

Her shirt is short and my eyes lock on how the fabric barely covers the curve of her ass. She glances over her shoulder toward the window as if—

I drop to the ground, my heart pounding so loudly I’m sure she must hear it. Pressed against the cold earth, I hardly dare to breathe.

That copper-penny taste floods my mouth again. It’s both thrilling and nauseating. Part of me wants to spit, to rid myself of this physical manifestation of my obsession. But another part, a darker part, savors it.

I should leave. I’ve already stayed too long, taken too many risks. But I can’t tear myself away.

Just one more minute, I tell myself. One more glimpse.

I lie there for several more minutes, snow melting beneath me, soaking through my clothes. When I’m certain it’s safe, I slowly raise my head.

Chloe sits at her desk, the glow of the computer screen casting eerie shadows across her face. Her fingers fly over the keyboard, and I strain to see what she’s typing. Is it a message to someone? An email? A diary entry?

The thought of Chloe keeping a diary sends a charge through me. What secrets might she confide to those pages? What hidden desires and fears might she reveal?

I lean closer, my nose nearly touching the glass. If I could get a better angle, maybe I could—

A chirp from her ceiling startles me, and I jerk back instinctively. It’s the smoke detector, its little light blinking in the darkness. The smoke detector’s chirp reminds me of my day job, and for a moment, I’m disoriented. Fireman Jack seems so far removed from this version of me, crouched in the snow outside Chloe’s window.

Chloe looks up at the detector, frowning slightly. She stands, stretching again, and I drink in the sight of her lithe body silhouetted against the warm light of her room. She walks to her closet, rummaging around until she emerges with a step stool.

My heart races as she sets up the stool beneath the smoke detector. Is she going to change the battery? That’s my job. I should be the one up there, keeping her safe.

She climbs up, reaching for the device, and her shirt rides up even further. I can see the edge of her panties against her creamy thighs, the delicate curve of her legs. My fingers twitch, aching to trace those lines.

Suddenly, Chloe wobbles on the stool. For a split second, I forget myself entirely. I’m halfway to my feet, ready to burst through the window and catch her before she falls. But she steadies herself, letting out a soft laugh that I can hear through the glass.

I sink back down, shaking. That was close. Too close. What if I had given myself away? What if she had seen me?

But another part of me, that dark, hungry part, whispers: What if she had fallen? What if you had saved her?

The fantasy unfolds in my mind. Chloe, falling. Me, crashing through the window in a shower of glass. Catching her in my arms, feeling her warm body against mine. Her looking up at me with those amber eyes, full of gratitude and awe.

And then, as if in slow motion, she’d lean in closer. I’d feel my heart pounding, my breath catching in my throat. Her lips would brush against mine, soft and sweet, tasting faintly of strawberry lip balm. The kiss would deepen, and I’d lose myself in the moment, forgetting about anything else but Chloe.

All I’d think about is Chloe. Only her. Always.

I shake my head, dispelling the image. It’s a dangerous line of thinking. Not to mention bat shit crazy. I can’t afford to get lost in such fantasies. I need to stay focused, stay hidden.

The detector chirps again. Taunting her.

She struggles to open up the detector but is unable to do so. She pounds on it with her fist and is rewarded with another chirp.

“Fuck this,” she says as she disappears into the other room. She returns a moment later with a broom. “Take this, you dirty bastard.”

I literally feel a part of my soul die a slow death as I watch Chloe raise the broom, preparing to strike the smoke detector.

No, no, no! God no. That’s not safe. She could damage it, leave herself unprotected. She could burn alive in her sleep. She could—just no. You don’t do this. The scenarios play out in my mind, each more horrifying than the last.

The urge to intervene is overwhelming.

Chloe swings the broom, connecting with the smoke detector. It comes loose from the ceiling with a crack, dangling by its wires. She lets out a triumphant “Ha!” that I can hear even through the ringing of my ears. The girl is going to cause me to stroke out.

The smoke detector swings like a broken pendulum, its incessant chirping now silenced. She looks pleased with herself, a mischievous grin playing on her lips.

Bad, bad girl!

I want to burst through that window and explain the dangers, lecture her on fire safety, spank her naughty and perfect ass, and then beg her to let me fix it properly.

She yawns, stretching her arms above her head. The movement causes her shirt to ride up again, exposing a tantalizing strip of skin. I force myself to look away, focusing instead on the broken smoke detector.

I need to fix this. I need to keep her safe.

An idea forms in my mind. It’s risky, but I can’t bear the thought of leaving her unprotected. I’ll come back tomorrow, in my firefighter uniform.

I’ll knock on her neighbor’s door, flash my most charming smile. I’ll be Nice Jack, Gentleman Jack, Fireman Jack.

And then I’ll be inside her house. In her space. Surrounded by her scent, her belongings, her life.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine, that copper-penny taste flooding my mouth once more.

I watch as she turns off her computer and pads back to her bed. She slides under the covers, reaching for her book once more. The bedside lamp casts a warm glow over her features, softening them. She looks angelic, peaceful. Completely unaware of the fact that hives are practically forming on my skin.

She broke the firefighter code. Never. Disable. An. Alarm.

Thinking of punishing her again for her naughty acts has my cock twitching in my pants. I force those thoughts away, disgusted with myself. I’m here to protect her, not . . . not have an inconvenient boner.

I watch as Chloe’s eyelids grow heavy. She marks her place in the book and sets it on the nightstand, then clicks off the lamp. The room plunges into darkness. I need to go now. I’m no longer looking into a lit room where I can see her, but she can’t see me. If she looks out her window, there is a chance she’ll see me once her eyes adjust to the darkness.

But I still wait. It’s as if I’m cemented in place.

I watch the rise and fall of her chest, counting her breaths, waiting for them to slow and deepen. One, two, three . . . By twenty, I’m certain she’s asleep. Only then do I allow myself to move, my joints stiff from standing for so long in the cold.

As I leave, a twig snaps beneath my foot. The sound seems impossibly loud in the silent night. I freeze, but there’s no movement from inside. Chloe sleeps on, oblivious.

I exhale slowly, my breath a white plume in the air. It’s time to go. I’ve pushed my luck far enough tonight. But I’ll be back . . .